Things That Bind
by FluffyLemonn
Summary: Fantine inspects her life from her deathbed- she thinks of everything she's done wrong, everything wrong that was done to her, and how this new stranger, Jean Valjean, just might be able to save her Cosette.


I must give all credit to the wonderful writer [Hugo] of this book. I also give credit to the person who wrote the condensed high school version of the play.

A short author's note:

Well, here I am: re-writing my story about Fantine. It had to come someday, and I was getting tired of that ashamed feeling I got whenever I looked at the story. A brief outlook on the writing style I used for this: I am basing this more on the play perspective then the book perspective. Ergo, a musically-inclined all-teeth-possessing Fantine story. Also, this writing style is something I am definitely trying out. I've never really written like this before... hmm... we shall see how it all turns out. So please be lenient if the flow of the script seems odd at one point. In all honesty, I really don't know that much about Fantine but what I could take from seeing the play twice and keeping in contact with one of the Fantines; she was incredibly kind in agreeing to email back and forth. I am still pinching myself- that girl is going to be famous.

Oh. Please also keep in mind that this is written from Fantine's (dying, yes) point of view, so I will attempt to imitate her speech patterns and influx the entire work with words I think she would use. Note: that **I** think she would use. Yes, she's a whore. But I think that underneath it all, there's a simple but quite well-kept woman. Here we go!

()

Oh, to be so alone. What a feeling, to know that no one out there truly knows your past, your name, your face. To know that if you die, no one but your starving child and the man you slept with last night will remember you. To know that no one but that starving child will even remotely miss you. (Ah, Cosette! Darling child!)

This feeling, emotion; in an endeavor to name it, the closest thing one could tempt from the frigid air would be loneliness. But even that forlorn idiom could not possibly come close to it. For you cannot name a dark place within you, a shadowy crevice that sits in your heart and slowly devours even your will to live. It is a sense, perhaps the sixth: there is sight, taste, hearing, touch, smell, and ache. The terrible draw that leads you to craving light. A sense that tells you where happiness is, that tells you that happiness is unobtainable. The pressure of weight upon your heart, your soul itself: yes, that is loneliness.

But a mad attempt to define it is not enough. For one cannot experience loneliness unless one _experiences_ loneliness. There lies the schism that will always part the damned and the saved. I, Fantine (for that is my name), am damned. I have felt loneliness; I, more than anyone in this world, know what it is like to lose all hope. To wish for death so desperately that I am willing to bring it to myself. And, if not for my dear Cosette, my most cherished gift, I would not have lived. I would have taken my life the instant I saw chance. Ah, but for Cosette. For my most blessed flower, I shall live, until death takes me unwilling to my grave and to my Hell. For without me, whom will she turn to? Whom will she lean her head upon when she grows tired of playing, and whom will dry her tears when the inevitable nightmares haunt her sleep as they do mine? No one, indeed, answers Fate: for Cosette is as alone as I.

As a tiger feeds on innocent deer and a man on both alike, loneliness stalks me about every turn. Just when I feel perhaps there shall be something better upon my small table tonight, just when I feel I have found sustaining work, this sprite strikes me and I fall once more. Nothing satisfies it: not prayers, not hope, not even...

Love...

Ah, to feel love. Certainly, I tell you, I have love for my dear Cosette- is there anything stronger than a mother's love for her child? For even the darkness I feel enveloping my soul cannot frighten away my yearning for Cosette's smile. It is like a gift from God above, if there ever was a God in this slum. But as for romantic love, I fear, I am most rashly denied. A slap on the cheek and rough handling is all I have ever received from this thing, this possession, this _obsession_ others know as 'love'. People spend their entire lives striving to find it and keep it, while I have been straining to stay away from it. It only slits my heart further open, and I am forever damned to be curious how others cannot see that this is what is happening to them as well.

But much as I have tried to define 'loneliness', I fear I owe 'love' (which I have almost as much experience with) the same. I am not one to leave a stone unturned, so to speak. That only leads to heartache and misgivings, missed opportunities and regret. But to love- how does one describe it? Ah, love leaves a heartache and misgiving as well, missed opportunities and regret soon follow. A terribly imperfect thing, love. So gentle when delicately fashioned and cared for, so harsh when tenderly broken and severed. I miss it so: the sentiment that everything will be just as it ought to be. But not just the emotion; the physical partner effects many as much (if not more) as the mental companion. The numbing air of a lover's eyes, the warm graze of their arms as the ardent nights and serene mornings set in. But even with these offerings, no explanation nor definition is correct. For though love and loneliness seem different, indeed, on opposite ends of the scale, they often walk hand-in-hand. An error may lead to either, and often neither is preferable. For though I long for love, to feel it once more, I fear it and it's insensitive qualms.

Some say love is the key to saving Grace. But I, though I am only Fantine and no more, say it is the key to downfall.

-But to fall in love again!

-But to live in love again!

People whisper and wonder about me, I know this. I hear them when I wander the streets; do they think me deaf? Or perhaps- perhaps they do this on purpose. For if there is one thing mortals crave, it is to bring down another's hope and pride. These people, the whisperers, they say that I have my own share of love. In my bed! But if they only knew what pains I had taken to never have to sell myself. If only, if only, murmurs Fate, laced with the wind. But alas! Fate is a cruel thing. Fickle and jealous, it was placed among us to destroy all we have worked for. Even the strongest of love cannot stand against Fate. A tool of God and Satan alike, it's tendril seep under every door and rot every wall. Fate, it seems, is not without cruelty. For only a cruel lord could have stricken it's subjects with so much woe. I have suffered my share and seven times seventy that. A massive misunderstanding, to think that I distribute myself willingly.

Here, I reach another point. What drives a woman to be so free with her body and pride? Is it lust? Perhaps. Love? Certainly not. Desperation? Indeed, I should think! For when faced with a choice between her pride and her child's life, a mother shall always choose her child's life. Though she would rather accept it as a nightmare, or perhaps a twisted daydream, a mother is always painfully aware of her child's situation. And as I am a mother, I am no exception. I knew as soon as I walked into that harlot's property of mistrust and abused bodies that I would not walk out as innocently as I had come in.

Here, I come to not a point but a memory, one that has been burning sickly in the back of my mind. A memory of how I wandered in, attracted by the almost tangible scent of money. I cared not how it was being earned nor traded, but only for the fact that it was being exchanged. As I slowly realized that these girls were servicing common men of the street and sailors, I was repulsed- I had half a mind to leave and try elsewhere. All about me I heard comments from the whores and men alike that I was pretty- indeed, something I did not need hear, I already knew it. My long, curly, golden hair, icy blue eyes, my thin and pale figure with a hint of rose dusted across the bridge of my nose- all of this was considered attractive. Something to be jealous over. Soon, I learned something: money, no matter how it is earned, pays a debt. I was drawn into the underworld, taught that I could please men without convincing them that I loved them or feeling love myself.

But the mere fact that a woman sells herself does not mean she wishes to! I do this not for love, nor lust, just for the money for my child. I cannot let her die!

However, the shame of what I have done and continue to do still drives me to the brink of insanity. How I hate it- the feeling of their touch, their eyes, their wanton core pulsing with need. I hate it all- how I cannot scrub their scent nor touch from my skin, how I can barely look my own sweet Cosette in the eye when she politely inquires why I did not come home last night, why I am crying.

Ah... tears and hatred. Hatred, almost as impossible to describe as love and loneliness. A sick and twisted burning inside of you, engulfing your stomach and mind with one thought; this must stop. Tears? They are no stranger to those who have experienced love, loneliness, and hatred. To sit and pour out tears takes so much energy that afterwards you can barely lift your head. Women of the street cannot afford to cry. It is for those who have the time and money to do nothing for a few hours. Yes, money pays a debt. But the heart pays as well- it bleeds dry, crimson tears that will eventually take over and destroy all hope. A woman who sells herself cannot be saved, I believe. For what is a worse sin then to dirty God's greatest gift?

Here I reach my final point: damnation. So far I have spoke and cried over loneliness and love, pride and money, hatred and tears. But now I have touched upon the result of it all: to be damned to Hell for the rest of eternity. I have committed so many sins, so many wrongs... I have loved and been heartbroken, I have done desperate things for money. God will not tolerate a prostitute in His Heaven. I am sure of it. I doubt I am fit for Purgatory: how can one purge my skin of the touches of men I don't even know? How can one burn the scent of their sweat and lust from my skin and hair? How can one cleanse my body of their seed, of their very essence? I was taught as a little girl that every man you engage yourself with stays with you (though not physically) for the rest of your life. I now know I should have listened. There is no salvation for me, a common wench of the streets. I only hope my poor Cosette can be saved by this stranger, Jean Valjean...

And oh, but for Jean. Surely he tricks me, surely his touch upon my cheek and hand were the same as the others- I have never known a man to be caring and expect nothing in return. Yet... his eyes speak differently. But I know quite well myself that it is easy to act and to lie. Maybe he is just as talented as I. But he has the most wonderful eyes- dark and rather alive, full of promise and old wounds. They hold such depth to them that I feel my breath hold in my chest if I look at them long enough. I feel as though I might fall into them one day. He really is a most handsome and caring man. But then, most of them appear that way.

But maybe, just maybe, he is sincere.

I hope so. I have known for quite a while I have contracted a sickness. I shall not live long- I pray my Cosette is safe in the bed Jean promised she would have. He tells me she shall be like his own, and I wish for a moment I could see them together. But no, I must leave.

Loneliness. Love. Pride. Memories. Hatred. Tears. Damnation. The things that haunt me and bind me to my life.

I pray that I may be cleansed after all.

()

And that is my edited version. "Fantine 2.0", if you will. I merely changed a few words, made is easier to read, redirected the flow of the language in some rather choppy spots. I also had seen Les Miz at a new theatre with a (much!) different cast, and it gave me the inspiration I needed to re-write this, fixing errors and ideas as I went.

Once again. I apologize if I got a little vague and brief towards the end: keep in mind that, as Fantine is writing/saying this, she is dying and would probably become just as distracted.

And a big thanks to my local (3.77 miles ) Fantine. You made/make a wonderful Fantine and (albeit indirectly) really helped me with this. What, err, did you think? -winces-


End file.
